I always was a sophisticated girl. From childhood to my late teens. I'm not social, I like to keep to myself.
I absolutely loved writing. Writing silly dialogues and essays. Short stories and prompts when I was too bored in class to pay attention in what my teacher had to say.
I'd get praised from various teachers about my writing, it made me happy. Feel more hopeful.
But writing doesn't hide what I did to my friends. I lost them. I blame myself, really. I wasn't careful enough.
For one's approval I told the other's secret.
It cost me my heart and liver. Both gone now. They won't even look at me.
I've realized now and I'm ashamed. And I hope one day I could make up to them. Maybe not.
That's when I committed myself to writing.
I'll write about my sins, my feelings, what I thought while doing it.
Maybe one day, just maybe, they can forgive me.
I have strange habits that confuse me.
I love to reach into one's mind and see how they react to different scenarios and how they handle everything.
I document it.
I review it.
I add details when necessary.
It isn't harmful, never. But it's strange, like I'm a scientist with no end conclusion.
A monarch with no control.
A manipulator who orchestrates time and places where the two people should react and how they would handle the situation.
Studying people in different scenarios fascinates me.
It's like I have no feelings for the outcome.
I only think for the result and the experience.
Maybe something is wrong with me.
But years of isolation and betrayal has me documenting people.
Documenting them like experiments.
To me, the world is a chessboard.
Every ally a pawn, every enemy a potential threat to those pawns.
I make friends.
I test them, their loyalty, their truth, their lies.
And it always ends in the same conclusion.
They leave.
Maybe It’s because of my strange habit of documenting.
Maybe it's the way I orchestrated meetings and breakups and eventually, a ceasefire.
My mind is complex, that much I know.
But I've found myself. And I know what I am.
I'm a calculating manipulator who orchestrates meetings, arguments, reconciliation, and breakup.
All for the thrill of wanting to know how people react.
The ache to manipulate, the ache to plan, the ache to feel something other than loneliness and hate.
I became a manipulator.
I'm not cruel, I don't do cruel.
I'm cold. I want results. Their outcomes and my conclusion.
But as far as I know?
People leave you the moment they learn the truth about your inner monster.
My friends saw my monster and abandoned me.
I never got to explain my habits. Maybe it was for the best.
But they were right to leave.
I am a monster.
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